It is 4.00am.
The wine bottles are lined up - discarded, open, waiting.
Maybe because of this we are playing "Person most likely to..." with the added bonus of the fact that when you are voted "most likely" you have to "gulp" your drink. Already it is not pretty.
We have traversed such subject matters as "most likely to be invited to a Royal Garden Party" (Rosalind), "most likely to start their own outdoor theatre company" (C) and "most likely to fly to the moon" (Former Soap Star). For me there has been the worryingly accurate - "most likely to want a baby" and "most likely to have voted in a reality television contest" (oh, how little they know) - to the potentially more worryingly inaccurate - "most likely to own a pair of fluffy slippers" and "most likely to have become a vet if they weren't doing the job they do now" ("But I hate animals!").
Now there is a tie between me and Oxonian as to "most likely to write a letter of complaint to a television company". It is decided, after some debate, that on balance I win.
I take a gulp of red wine knowing - even now - that I shall regret this later.
"Ok" my brain races with wine as, unseen, my right foot continues to trace its path against the leg next to mine.
"Most likely to spend 50% of their monthly income on an item of clothing".
There's the count. One. Two. Three. We all point.
I plump for Former Soap Star. So do the majority of the people in the circle. Only Oxonian has noticed an anomaly.
"I don't know why you're pointing to [C]" he says to Actress Girlfriend. "[C] gets all of his clothes from Scope".
Everyone laughs, the fact that C is undoubtedly by some clear distance the richest person in the room is betrayed in his clothing in the way I have long since come to recognise with public school boys.
"You know what's most worrying about that?" Oxonian asks "The fact that I ran through a list of Charity shops in my head before I got to one that fitted. Oxfam? No. Cancer Research? No. Scope? Yes!".
I start to giggle uncontrollably. C is laughing too, his face scrunched and slightly flushed.
"And more worrying that that?" C says. I suspect I know what is coming. "This jumper" - giggling furiously he points to the dark blue woolen effort which seems to have appeared post-pub - "came from Scope".
I am laughing so much that I have to put my drink down. I look over, knowing that - just this once - there are no secrets. He is utterly readable, even as he moves his hair away from his face in the gesture which all of us can mimic, laughter creasing his features.
In a rush I realise: I shall miss him.